The Suspect - L R Wright

by L. R. Wright

  "Don't use this room much,” said George Wilcox. "Come on into the kitchen.” He waved Alberg on toward the back of the house.

  The kitchen was a bright, sunny square, painted yellow. A worn leather chair sat at an angle to the large window, which looked out upon a small garden and the sea. Next to the chair stood an old-fashioned tobacco cabinet. There was a footstool in front of the chair, piled with magazines and a section of newspaper folded to the crossword puzzle. A TV tray stood nearby. There was no table in the kitchen. The yellow walls were grimy with accumulated dust and splotched with grease near the four-burner electric stove.

  "You might as well see the rest of the place, now you're here," said George. He opened a door and Alberg followed him into a small beige-carpeted room. Two walls were lined with bookcases, a desk and chair sat by the window, several comfortable chairs were scattered around, and there was a fireplace.

  "This is where you live,” said Alberg.

  "Here and in the kitchen.” George went through a doorway in the corner of the room, into a short hall. "Here's the bathroom," he said, waving to the right, "and straight on here is the bedroom."

  Alberg stood in the doorway and looked around. Small windows again, almost as though the room were in a basement. A large four-poster bed, two dressers, a half-open closet door. On one of the dressers was a framed photograph of a woman. It was angled slightly away from him, and Alberg couldn't see it clearly.

  "That's it,” said George, reaching in front of Alberg to close the door. "The grand tour." He went back down the hall and through another doorway which led into the living room, then turned left back into the kitchen. "Fellow who built this place," he said, "was awfully fond of doors. I took some of them down, you probably noticed. Doorways is one thing, doors is another. Take up too much room. Sit down there, by the window. I'll make some coffee. Eight of them, there were, when we bought this place. Not counting the outside ones, or closets. Eight doors, in a house this size."

  He filled a percolator with water, poured coffee into the basket, and set the pot on the stove. Then he went into the study and hauled out the desk chair. Alberg, standing by the window, made a move to help. "Sit down, sit down,” said George Wilcox. "No, not here—in the leather chair, there. Sit.” I

  Alberg sat. George took the straight-backed chair.

  "Now,” said George. "What questions?"

  He was alert and unruffled. Alberg glanced wistfully at his thick white hair. He himself was sure to be bald, eventually. All the men in his family had gone bald. He checked once or twice a week, and his hairline had already begun to recede. It had started about twenty years ago.

  "What do you know about Carlyle Burke?" he said.

  George Wilcox sighed. "What's this in aid of, anyway? I can't figure it."

  "When you're trying to find out who killed somebody, you've got to poke around in his life a bit.”

  "Is that so?” said George. "Is that the way it's done, then." He rubbed one scuffed slipper against the linoleum. "Got any suspects?"

  Alberg hesitated. "Not really. Not yet."

  "You're pretty damn calm about it," said George? "If I were a cop, and I had me a murdered body and no suspects, I don't think I'd be so damn calm about it."

  "I'm not calm,” said Alberg. "I just look calm. Actually I'm irritated. And extremely curious."

  "Curious." George chortled. "I'm curious, too." He leaned forward. "I supposed you've looked at the obvious. You know, milkman, postman, paperboy—that kind of thing. And of course the most obvious thing of all, your basic hoodlum, possibly drug-crazed." He sat back, complacent.

  "Yes, Mr. Wilcox," said Alberg. "We've looked at the obvious."

  "How?” said George. The water in the coffeepot began to burp. He got up and turned down the burner.

  He had wide, strong shoulders, Alberg noticed. Probably all that gardening. His own shoulders were still stiff and sore, from Tuesday's efforts.

  "What have you done, exactly?" said George, sitting down again. "Besides take the fingerprints of innocent bystanders, I mean. Did you photograph the corpse? Query people up and down the street?"

  Alberg nodded. He told himself that he had lots of time.

  "You found that fish seller yet?"

  Alberg shook his head.

  "Probably in Vancouver by now,” said George. "Or on his way to Calgary or someplace. What else? What do you know? The autopsy, for instance. There must have been an autopsy. What did that tell you?”

  "He was struck on the head. It killed him.”

  George looked at him for a long moment, then sat back and folded his arms. "I always said you were a secretive bunch, you Mounties. In or out of uniform."

  Alberg couldn't help but grin. "There's not much to tell you. Really. Okay. There are a few things." He counted them off on his fingers. "One, the perpetrator didn't force his way in. Two, the victim was struck from behind, while sitting down. Three, no damage was done—"

  "Except to Carlyle,” said George.

  "—to the house. Four, nothing was stolen, that we know of. Of course the forensic guys found some fingerprints. The victim's, a cleaning woman's, yours.” ,

  The coffee was bubbling now, its fragrance drifting through the kitchen. George got up and took two mugs and a sugar bowl from the cupboard and a small container of milk from

  the fridge. He smelled this cautiously before putting it on the counter.

  "What do you figure from all that?” he said, taking the pot off the burner and placing it in the middle of the stove. "An unknown person went to Mr. Burke's house, armed with a blunt instrument. Mr. Burke let him in. He sat in his rocking chair looking out over the water. The unknown person struck him, from behind. He died almost instantly.”

  George poured the coffee and put the mugs down on the crossword puzzle on the footstool. He went back for the milk and sugar and two spoons. "Help yourself,” he said, and shoveled sugar into his mug, and stirred it vigorously. "Why the hell would Carlyle let the fellow in," he said, "if he was carrying a blunt instrument?"

  "That's an interesting question,” said Alberg, reaching for his coffee. "Maybe he didn't recognize the object as a weapon,” he said, looking at George. "Or maybe the killer used something he found in the house.”

  George sipped at his coffee, staring at the floor. "Have you found it?" he said finally. "The object? The weapon?"

  "No.”

  George looked up. "It's probably out in the middle of the ocean by now,” he said comfortably.

  Alberg observed him grimly. "You can be a very irritating man, Mr. Wilcox. Did anybody ever tell you that? I bet they did.”

  George grinned. He drank some more coffee, added a small amount of milk, and stirred it again. He put the spoon down on the newspaper. "Okay. So you want to know about l Carlyle.”

  "Right." '

  "You been down to the Old Age Pensioners' hall? He was in a choir there. Played bingo or checkers or something, too, I think.”

  "Yeah, we've done all that. Didn't help us much.”

  George looked at him shrewdly over the top of his mug. "How come I rate the big cheese, by the way?"

  "You found the body."

  "That was just my bad luck," said George. "I told you, I didn't know him all that well. How well do we ever know anybody, when it comes right down to it?"

  Alberg put his coffee down on the TV tray. He took from an inside pocket an envelope on which he had scribbled a list.

  "We went through the house pretty thoroughly, of course,” he said, and looked up to see George Wilcox watching him warily. "He had a lot of stuff, did Mr. Burke. A stereo, very I good speakers."

  "Huh," said George, contemptuously.

  "A twenty~six-inch remote control color television set. An aluminum rowboat. An upright grand piano, white."

  George grunted.

  "A whole lot of silverware: flatware, a tea set, trays and things. A bunch of china—that might be valuable too.”

  "Is that what you've got
written on that envelope?" said George irritably. "You got a list of his assets there, or what?"

  "And then of course there's the house,” said Alberg. "It's mortgage free. All paid for."

  "Huh," said George. "So's mine.”

  "He didn't leave much actual cash," said Alberg regretfully.

  "But there are some Canada Savings Bonds, a few stocks—about twenty-five thousand dollars' worth, all told."

  "Christ," said George. "Spare me."

  Alberg put the envelope back in his pocket. "He left it all to you," he said.

  For a second George's expression didn't change. Then the sneer slipped away, and his mouth fell slightly open. He leaned forward and cocked his head, looking intently at the tobacco stand next to the chair in which Alberg was sitting, as though it were that which had spoken. "What?" he said, staring at the tobacco stand.

  "You get it all, George," said Alberg. "The whole shebang.”

  And he watched, bemused, as George collapsed in a fit of laughter which Alberg briefly thought might choke him.

  "You all right now, George?" he asked softly, when the old man's wheezing had subsided. "Because we've got a lot to talk about, you and I. And there are a couple of things we should get straight, before we go on.

  "First of all," he said, leaning forward, "I don't want to waste any more of my time with this cantankerous-old-man act you have so much fun with. And second of all, I know Carlyle Burke was your brother-in-law."

  He sat back. "So let's get on with it, shall we, George? Tell me why you didn't get along so well with old Carlyle. And tell me what your fingerprints were doing not just on the phone but all over the damn kitchen. And then tell me why he left everything he owned to you, this fellow you didn't care for. Okay, George? Start talking."

  CHAPTER 11

  Alberg, sitting in the worn leather chair, fingered the stuffing which oozed from a crack in the seam of the right arm and kept his eyes on George Wilcox.

  After a minute, George settled back and folded his arms.

  "My fingerprints are all over his kitchen because, I don't mind saying it, I was—I was somewhat discombobulated," he said, "seeing him lying there. I grabbed at things to hold me up, on the way to the phone. I grabbed at the wall, I grabbed at the sink .... ” He lifted his shoulders, let them drop.

  The late-afternoon sun struck into the room at a steep angle; the windows were marked by the rains of spring and probably winter, as well. Tumbleweeds of dust lay in the corners of the floor.

  George sighed. "I met Carlyle a few years after the war," he said. "Must have been '48, '49. Myra and I wandered out here from the prairies. Saskatoon." His folded hands rested comfortably in his lap. "I was born out here. Went to Saskatchewan about 1930. A bad time to head out there, as it happened, but we survived. I even went to school, eventually, got to be a teacher. Met Myra, got married, et cetera, et cetera." He shrugged. "Anyway, we got tired of the cold, that's what it was. Myra's people had retired out here. I didn't have any family left by then, except my sister, Audrey. She lived with us." He shifted a little in his chair. His feet were flat on the floor, toes pointed outward, heels about eight inches apart.

  "Myra's people lived in the Fraser Valley, " he went on. "She wanted me to get a job out there. But I considered myself a city person. There were lots of jobs, back then. I could take my pick, pretty well. I picked Vancouver. " He tipped his head at Alberg. "Are you a city man, Staff Sergeant?" He leaned toward him. "Is that what I call you? Staff Sergeant?"

  Alberg nodded.

  George sat back, slowly. "You don't want my life history. I got a job in a high school, teaching history. Carlyle was on the staff. That's how I met him." He turned his head to look out the window. "He taught music."

  "And?” said Alberg, after a couple of minutes.

  "And what?"

  "Come on, George.”

  "You're calling me George now? Have you got a first name? What is this 'George' all of a sudden, anyway?"

  "Sorry. You've got more to tell me. Go on."

  "Go on, go on," said George. "As though all I've got to do is push a button somewhere and out it comes." His face was flushed. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and studied the floor. "After a while Carlyle met Audrey, God knows how, I can't remember how. And it ended up they got married." He glanced at Alberg, outraged. "I was suddenly his brother-in-law, for Christ's sake. Couldn't believe it.”

  "Right from the start, then, you didn't like him,” said Alberg.

  George sat up straight and looked out the window again, concentrating. Several moments went by. Alberg waited.

  "He played the piano," said George, finally. "He could play anything. Sometimes he'd go to the music room .... I'd be going down the hall, wide and empty, the kids gone for the day, the floor all scuffed; I'd hear him playing. It came soaring out from behind the door and filled every nook and cranny in the school. That's what it felt like. Mozart. Or Chopin. Or Beethoven. As long as I couldn't see him playing, it was like some angel had sneaked in to try out the piano." He sat quietly for a moment. Then, "Ah," he said, and pushed himself up. He picked up his coffee mug and went over to the kitchen counter. "It was the man's one redeeming characteristic," he said. "Didn't seem right, that he could play like that. But he could.”

  "What was it that you didn't like about him?" said Alberg.

  "Didn't trust him," said George promptly. "Never trusted him. He came over all friendly to me the first day I got there. I took one look and said to myself, 'I don't trust that man.' ”

  He went back to his chair and lowered himself into it. "When he married my sister I had to overlook all that. Never got to know him well; closely, I mean. Never wanted to. I had a big resistance to Carlyle, all the time I knew him." Quite suddenly, he looked exhausted. I

  "How long was he married to your sister?"

  "Two years.”

  "What happened?”

  "She died. In a car crash.” He rubbed his face, pale and strained. "We were out of the country when it happened, Myra and I and our daughter, Carol. I was teaching in Germany.” He straightened and rubbed the small of his back with both hands. "That's what it must have been, you see. He never got married again, didn't have any family except that sister in Winnipeg and they couldn't stand each other. He must have figured I was the closest thing to kin he had." His voice shook a little. "The crazy old bastard.”

  Alberg felt depression nudging him, gentle little pushes that made him feel slightly sick. He struggled against it, looking around the room for something to hook on to. "This place could use a good cleaning,” he said disapprovingly.

  George looked at him, startled, and grinned. "Myra was quite a one for the cleaning. I've barely touched the place since she took ill, last November thirteenth ” He glanced around the kitchen. "You're right, though.”

  They sat quietly, and Alberg became aware of the sound of the sea's incessant surging against George's beach, and the occasional cry of a gull. He saw that the waters were calm; there was a tremble upon them, that was all. George's garden, between his house and the beach, was an orderly riot, not a weed in sight, just lush growth and colors that were almost audible. He saw this through the streaked window of George's kitchen, and had an urge to go out there and see it all clearly, watch the leaves breathe and smell the roses.

  "When did your wife die?" he asked.

  "On the twentieth of March, this year," said George.

  "Do you still miss her?”

  George looked at him with distaste and didn't reply. Alberg didn't know where to go from here. He felt almost stupefied, sitting in George's kitchen, nestled into the worn leather chair, and thought if he stayed there much longer his eyelids would grow heavy and his head would drop back.

  "So you met a man you disliked on sight," he said, trying to organize his thoughts. He ought to get up, thank George Wilcox for his time, and leave, that's what he ought to do. But he felt the interview had been sloppy. Maybe there wasn't anything more to be learned he
re, but he was uncertain about exactly what he bad learned. He wrenched his mind into action.

  "You instinctively distrusted him," he said doggedly. "But you taught at the same school. I presume you were polite, never let him know how you felt. Is that right?”

  "Oh I think he must have known how I felt, all right," said George. "He kept asking me out for a drink, and I'd hardly ever go, and sometimes he'd call me at home and invite Myra and me to dinner, and I don't think we ever went." He looked at Alberg, not seeing him, remembering something. "That's how he met Audrey," he said dully. "How could I forget that? Every year we had a staff party, on the last day of school before Christmas. We always invited him because we always invited everybody, but usually he couln't come, because he went away for Christmas and had to catch a train or a plane for somewhere. But one year he didn't go away, so he came to our party. And Audrey was there, of course. That's how he met her. In my house. Christ.”

  "When you did have a drink with him," said Alberg, "what did you talk about?”

  "Women. He liked to talk about women. They liked him, women did. He was a good-looking man,” he said grudgingly, "and he played the piano, I told you that. Talked a lot, made jokes, flattered, smiled. I didn't trust him."

  "Did you tell your sister that you didn't trust him?”

  "What the hell do you think?" said George, agitated. He got up and rubbed his sweatered arm vigorously back and forth across the window, smearing the dust and accumulated grime which until then had been almost invisible, obscured by the dried streaks made by the rain on the outside of the glass. "Of course I told her. But she was a grown woman. She was thirty-five years old, for Christ's sake. I told her she was making a terrible mistake; the man was twenty years older than she was, into the bargain. And she just laughed and sparkled, all excited she was." He slumped back on the chair. "Myra gave me a talking to. She liked him," he said, glaring at Alberg. "She actually liked him, Myra did.”